Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

The woman claimed that she wasn't following him, but he wasn't as quick to believe as he'd been to accuse. After a moment of thought, however, he'd realized that she did have a point. On both occasions that they'd met, he'd been the one to stumble across her, not the other way around. But, then again... "How do I know you haven't been planning these meetings?" asked the Inuit, his voice having raised in pitch part way through. "You could have seen me and then set it up to seem like I ran into you." It would have been a lot of work to do so, but he couldn't deny the possibility of anything. Even in spite of the fact that he'd been alert throughout the entirety of his journey, he had to consider the chance that she could have slipped through the cracks. That by some stroke of luck—or bad luck for him—she'd gotten passed him without having ever been noticed.

Xan's belief faltered when she'd asked who he was, as she'd then proceeded to scan the area. A part of him wanted to believe her, to give in and settle on the fact that she knew nothing, but his fear wouldn't let him. "Cicero," he'd hissed, the name tasting like acid on his tongue. "Why are you here?" So far, she hadn't given him any legitimate reasons to think that she wished to harm him, but she also hadn't proven herself to be entirely harmless, either. Clumsy, perhaps, but not lacking in the danger department.